


Unbound/Unbroken

by sonata_de_morte



Category: Dragon Age 2
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonata_de_morte/pseuds/sonata_de_morte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of interconnected oneshots in no particular order concerning Fenris, his relationship with one Aria Hawke, and coming to terms with what it means to be free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Fenris Laughs

**Author's Note:**

> This would take place during and after the "A Murder of Crows" side quest. Some dialog from the game has been appropriated.

The problem, Fenris decided, was that Hawke thought everything was funny.

She took every opportunity that she could to make a joke, no matter how ill timed. She laughed in the faces of Templars and the Knight-Commander without fear, her staff sitting proudly on her back, and the crackle of magic still around her finger tips. She threw quips at half crazed blood mages and the Qunari alike, standing her ground with that wry twist to her lips and mirth dancing in her pale gray eyes.

How someone who had seen so much, who had _lost_ so much, could be so jovial all the time was beyond Fenris' comprehension. He had been there both times that Hawke had lost things precious to her. When her brother had fallen to the darkspawn's corruption, he hadn't known her well enough to know what to say. Instead, he'd stood there, silent, letting Varric who had known her longer than anyone else left alive on this expedition offer the comforting words. Fenris had been taken aback, and a little bit appalled at how she had brushed off the comfort with humor, but he'd seen the pain licking around her face. He knew pain well.

When her mother lay dying, corrupted in a different, and more gruesome way, Fenris had felt Hawke's pain like a physical thing. No jokes could be told to a corpse, but when he'd gone to her, sat beside her on her bed and listened to her voice crack around an attempt at humor, his heart had constricted a bit.

She'd joked even when he left her. When he had taken her warmth and acceptance and thrown it back in her face for fear and so much self loathing, she had held his eyes and offered herself for the future if it would help.

He'd left anyway.

Hawke had allowed him back, though, with that same twist of lips and bright expression.

Now they stood in a cave up the mountain, facing down a supposed dangerous killer. Fenris almost wished this Zevran was a murderer. Then he would have been justified in running him through. He was obviously flirting with Hawke, calling her beautiful and strong, the things that Fenris said to her when they were close together in one of their homes like they were on most nights now that he had apologized for his cowardice.

And Hawke was laughing and smiling at him. Taking his jokes about being tied up and twisting them into her own sardonic comments.

“Someone after her own heart,” Anders muttered under his breath, and Fenris shot him a glare. As if he needed more reason to dislike the abomination. Why had Hawke even brought him? Surely she was all the mage they needed just to apprehend an idiot.

Zevran suggested that they go take care of the men who had hired them, which Fenris approved of because it left no loose ends, and it got them away from the smarmy elf.

Of course that hadn't been the end of him, and when they found Nuncio's camp, Zevran showed up. He fought beside them, and fought well, Fenris had to admit. He moved like Isabella, darting in and out of the fray, stabbing and slicing with precision.

Whatever grudging respect Fenris might have felt for the assassin was quickly squelched when he bowed to Hawke, taking her hand and kissing it lightly. “It is time for me to move on,” he said, in his ridiculous Antivan accent. “Unless you'd...care to get to know each other better, Champion?”

That was the last thing he was taking from this fool. “That depends,” he snapped. “How much to do you wish to test that luck of yours?” He could hear the anger in his own voice, and both Varric and Anders shifted so they were standing a bit farther away from him. Hawke just tossed him an amused glance over her shoulder and shook her head at the other elf.

Zevran laughed and took his leave, and the four of them made their way back to Kirkwall, stopping only briefly to let Anders take care of any bumps and bruises sustained in the fight.

“Drinks?” Hawke asked, stretching languidly when the lights of Lowtown came into view. “I could go for a piss flavored ale before bed.”

“Heading there anyway,” Varric chimed in. “Blondie? You in?”

Fenris half expected him to decline. The mage had been growing more erratic as the years passed, and Fenris knew it was only a matter of time before he snapped.

“Sure,” Anders said instead, nodding. “I could use a break.”

Hawke grinned at him and looked over at Fenris. “Coming?”

He shook his head. “No. I've...things to do.”

“He means more brooding,” Varric whispered to Anders.

“I'll see you later, then?” Hawke asked, tilting her head at him.

Fenris just nodded and then departed, heading up towards Hightown without another word. Hawke would see through the lie, she always did, but what she did was her business. She had made him no promises, and if she wanted to engage in...whatever with assassins and blood mages and abominations, then that was her business.

He sat in his bedroom, glaring at the fire for hours and wondering what it meant that he actually wanted to belong to someone again. Because what was this if not another form of slavery? One that he had chosen, yes, but there were still chains. He was still shackled. And if Hawke did not wish to be shackled to him in this, then... He shook his head and sighed, pushing his fingers through his hair.

“Fenris?”

Hawke's voice. And her footsteps on the stairs. He had no servants to show her in, and he had told her long before any of this that she was welcome to just come in when she needed something. He always knew when it was her coming, traipsing up the stairs on light feet, and chuckling under her breath at something.

“There you are,” she said as she leaned in the doorway. And there _she_ was. Beautiful, irreverent Hawke, with her bright eyes and her auburn hair that fell and curled to her shoulders, staff at her back. She favored him with a smile, one that he liked to think was just for him, though now he wasn't so sure. “What are you brooding about now, Fenris?”

“I am not brooding,” he said back, even though he knew he was. Damned dwarf.

She stepped in, pulling her staff away from her and leaning it in a corner. It was a common sight now, and Fenris had to wonder when it had become so comfortable to have her here, smelling of lyruim and the cold sharpness of the ice spells she favored. “I think you are,” she replied, coming over to his chair and leaning over the back of it. Her hands slid down the metal of the breastplate that he hadn't bothered to remove yet, and his nose was filled with the scent of her. “Tell me what's wrong.”

Fenris didn't know how she did it. It was as if she weaved some subtle spell around him, making him want to tell her everything. He sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes. “Do you take nothing seriously?” he'd asked before he had truly thought about the question.

“Of course I do,” Hawke replied.

“Do you?” Fenris wanted to know. “You run around the city, laughing in the face of everything. Of things that could hurt you. Lock you away.”

“Is this about what I said to Meredith the other day? Because that was-”

“No. It isn't about that. Although it's an excellent example of the point I'm trying to make.”

He heard the sound of movement and then there were hands on his knees. Fenris opened his eyes and looked into Hawke's pale ones. “You were jealous,” she sad softly, and for once there was no amusement in those gray depths.

“I wasn't,” he denied. Because that was what he did.

“You were,” Hawke said back. Because she knew him too well.

“Fenris, I joke with everyone. You know me. If a supposed dangerous assassin wants to make jokes about bondage with me, I'm not going to turn him down.”

“You were flirting with him,” Fenris accused. “Which is...fine.”

“Is it?” Hawke asked, and Fenris was a bit unnerved by the seriousness of her face. It reminded him of that night, years ago, when he'd sat on her bed beside her, holding her hand while she'd tried to joke away tears.

“I...”

“Fenris,” she said, and there was a soft smile on her face, then. “I joke with everyone. But you have to see that I'm different with you. This...between us, I take that seriously. “You told me that you wanted to walk into the future at my side, and I want that, Fenris. I thought you knew.”

No one was able to make him feel like a fool quite like Aria Hawke.

“I had hoped,” he murmured, lowering his eyes.

And there was her laugh, bubbling out of her and filling the room. “Oh, Fenris,” she said, reaching up to touch his face. “Staying with you means I have to be like this. We can't both be so serious all the time, and I think you have that more than covered.” She cut off the protest he was going to make by pressing her lips to his firmly, reassuringly, and Fenris had to laugh.


	2. In Which Fenris Relieves Stress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is obviously before 'Alone' and probably somewhere before 'A Bitter Pill' when I think about it. Let's just place it somewhere near the middle of Act 2 before the Qunari stuff starts heating up.

Fenris liked to break things. There was something endlessly satisfying about the crash of china on stone, or the feel of wood splintering under the force of his hands, and glass always looked so pretty scattered across the floor.

The mansion was already a mess, and it hardly mattered if it got worse. He'd disposed of all of the corpses that had littered the side rooms and the one in the entrance way. Hawke never said anything about them, but he saw the way she would wrinkle her nose when she would step in, calling for him to come help her with whatever mission the day had brought.

He didn't care either way, but he wanted her to keep coming around, so he'd gotten rid of them. He'd even made some effort to sweep up the mess of demonic ash that seemed to be absolutely everywhere, but he wasn't good at it. Cleaning hadn't been one of his duties as a slave. There had been others for that. Others who were less wanted than Fenris.

Most of the furniture was already broken, so what was a few more shattered mirrors or splintered chairs?

It had started with a dream.

Hawke was off doing something for the abomination, and she'd left him behind because all he and Anders did was bicker whenever they went out together, and the last time, it had turned into a shouting match that had alerted a nest of deadly spiders to their location.

“It's easier this way,” Hawke had told him. She'd stroked his arm gently, her fingers following the white trail of one of his lyrium markings. “Anders is...well, he's having a hard time, I think, and you snapping at him isn't going to help.”

Fenris had scowled because he didn't want to help the mage at all, and he didn't want Hawke helping him either. He recognized that he had no control over what she did, though, so he'd just huffed and agreed to stay behind and not complain if she came to see him when she returned. Just to prove that she was alright.

She'd treated him to her usual wry smile and agreed before rushing off to meet Varric and Isabela who were going as well.

Unsure of what else to do, Fenris had raided the wine cellar and finished off a bottle before the moon had even fully risen. He'd fallen asleep in his usual chair, lulled by the heat of the fire, the wine, and the silence.

In his dream he saw death. He saw himself, glowing a brilliant, unnatural blue, slicing his way through wave after wave of enemies in fancy dress. None of them were armed or made any effort to defend themselves against him. The colors of their silks and muslins were blotted out by red, red, and more red. Blood soaking into the pale carpet, staining his hands and face, and squishing under his bare feet as he continued to kill. Even his eyes glowed blue, and he phased his hand through chests and backs, ripping out hearts and throwing them into a pile. A pile that grew at the feet of a man. A man who held a chain that was connected to a thick metal collar that was nearly choking him. Danarius. The more flesh he rent, the harder it became to breathe, but he couldn't stop. Stopping meant _his_ death, and he had to prevent that at all costs. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the high, cruel sound of Danarius' laughter.

Fenris woke with a start, his chest heaving and sweat gathered on his brow. Through the nearby window, he could see that it was fully dark outside now, the streets emptying as the hour grew later.

_Venhedis._

It wasn't the first time that he had dreamed of Danarius, and he highly doubted it would be the last. The magister was still out there somewhere, after all, hunting him. He doubted that he would be able to fully relax until he was dead, and who knew how long that would take?

Unable to sit still for a moment more, Fenris pushed to his feet. He wasn't wearing his armor since he hadn't left the mansion that day, but he still felt like he was suffocating. He stripped the thin tunic off and threw it onto his bed. There was a restlessness in his body that demanded attention, so Fenris grabbed the nearest thing, the empty wine bottle, and hurled it at the wall with all of his strength. He felt a mild surge of satisfaction when it shattered in a fall of dark green glass.

It wasn't enough.

He wasn't far gone enough to ruin the room that he usually slept and sat in (the thought of Hawke not coming by because there was no where to sit crossed his mind), so he stalked down the stairs to one of the other rooms and wound up in the dining room. He remembered standing in the corner of a room just like this one, watching as Danarius had entertained his guests. He'd poured endless glasses of expensive wine and watched as nobles has grimaced at him, afraid of what he might do.

The anger that rose in him at the sight of the room propelled him further into it, and before he had really had time to think about what he was doing, Fenris had picked up a chair and slammed it against the floor. It was the chair that Danarius would have probably sat in, at the head of the room, commanding attention like the bastard he was.

Fenris smashed the chair again and again, throwing it against the ground and then throwing the pieces against the walls.

He grabbed for another chair, and flung it, smiling savagely when it crashed int a vase in the corner and shattered that as it fell.

The destruction was glorious.

Time ceased to matter as he wrecked the room, breaking tables and more chairs, and every single vase in the room. He tore the pictures of stately looking people, people who probably owned slaves of their own, from the walls and put his fists through them, imagining that each one had Danarius' face.

He might have continued all night, moved to another room and matched it up with one in Danarius' old home before turning it into a mess of chaos. He might have, but for the soft intake of breath from the door.

Fenris whirled and saw Hawke standing there with wide eyes. Even through the haze of his rage, he had to admire how beautiful she was. She looked tired, her shoulders stooped under the weight of her robes and staff, and her eyes were dull.

He realized what he must look like, eyes flashing with fury, hair in disarray. His chest was bare, and when he looked down, he realized that his hands were bleeding. There were no words that could properly explain, and he rather thought that he didn't need them. Hawke understood him like no one else ever had.

“What's happened?” she asked, finally, taking a hesitant step into the room. She surveyed the mess with a quick glance and then brought her eyes back to him.

“Nothing,” he replied, curling his hands into fists and putting them behind his back.

“Right,” she drawled. “That makes sense. And here I was thinking that the dining room did something to offend you.”

He closed his eyes and let out a breath. Typical Hawke. Anyone else would have been afraid to come near him like this. He was, as the abomination had so hypocritically pointed out, a beast sometimes. But Hawke just dealt with it the same way she dealt with everything.

There was a soft sigh, and then the sound of her picking her way across the room. “Be careful,” he cautioned, keeping his eyes closed.

“I'm always careful,” she quipped back.

Fenris jumped when he felt her hands on his skin. She was shorter than him by a good bit, and she had such small hands. They were lightly calloused from wrapping around her staves and from the life she had had before him. Something unclenched inside of him at her touch.

“Let me see,” she said, pulling at his arm.

“No.”

“Fenris.”

“Hawke.”

“Just give me your fucking hands, Fen,” she said firmly, and he opened his eyes.

Hawke was very close now, and he could see the weariness in her. There was a sheen of sweat on her face, and her hair was mussed. Her hand trembled slightly where it rested against his arm, her skin ashen.

“What happened?” he asked, frowning. He should never have let her go off with that fool Anders without him there.

“Plenty of things. What happened here?”

He knew that determined tone of her voice, and he felt bad suddenly. She looked exhausted and ready to drop, and he was making it harder for her. Part of him wanted to keep his private torments to himself, but a much larger part of him wanted to tell her. And not just so that she would tell him what had happened on the mission.

“I had a nightmare,” Fenris said softly, and placed his hands in hers.

Hawke looked startled, but she smiled, cradling both of his hands and surrounding them with a soft blue light.

It had taken a very long time for him to trust her to use healing magic on him, but now he didn't even think twice about it. He trusted her implicitly. More than he had ever trusted anyone in his life. That he could remember, anyway. So he let her heal his hands and stood still while she checked him over for any other injuries.

“Satisfied?” he asked, smirking a little.

She rolled her eyes. “Remind me to let you bleed out next time.”

“I've had worse injuries than a few cuts on my hand,” Fenris told her. Timidly, even now, he took her hand and let her from the destruction. It didn't feel right to have her in the room that reminded him of all that was evil and wrong in his life.

Neither of them spoke again until they were back upstairs, sitting on the rug in front of the fire. Hawke leaned against him, her staff in its usual corner, and her sleeves rolled up. She held a glass of wine that Fenris had fetched for her, seeing that she could use it. “Tell me,” he said.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes before draining the glass in two gulps. “Anders...I don't know how much longer he can hold it together.”

In Fenris' opinion, he had never had it together, but he wasn't going to tell her that. Instead he sat quietly with her, lending her his support.

“We went after this templar that he suspected was making mages Tranquil just to shut them up. I think...he was right to a certain extent, though he expected it to be much worse than it actually was.”

Fenris listened as she spoke softly, telling him about finding the templar and a young mage that he was threatening. And about Anders nearly losing himself and killing the girl. He scowled at that. The abomination was a danger to himself and everyone around him, and when Hawke was less tired, he was going to tell her that he would be coming on any other missions where Anders was involved. Hawke was a powerful mage in her own right, and she even knew how to use a knife with skill, but he wouldn't have her going up against a demon. Especially one that she counted as a friend. Fenris would have no problem killing Anders to save her. Or just because he deserved it.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, voice harsh.

Hawke shook her head. “No. I managed to talk him down before it went too far. I just...I support his cause, you know that.” Of course he did. It was something they had argued about on many occasions. She was a mage herself, and her sister and father had been the same before their deaths. There was no way she would support mages being locked away or turned Tranquil just because they had magic and people didn't like it. Fenris didn't think it was as simple as all that, but he wasn't going to go there. Not now.

“I know,” he replied. “But?” Because there was definitely a but.

“But I worry that Anders is losing sight of the ultimate goal in his need for vengeance.”

Instead of replying, Fenris plucked the glass from Hawke's hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. She turned her head to smile at him, and he could see gratitude there.

“Tell me about your dream.”

No one had ever asked him to speak of his nightmares, but there was something about the feel of Hawke's hand in his that bid him to tell her. He explained all of it, his voice never changing tones or revealing how he felt, and Hawke listened. She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb, and remained quiet through the whole thing.

When he was done talking, she turned her head and met his eyes, before leaning up and kissing him softly on the lips. “You're not a monster, Fen,” she murmured. “That person in your dream, that's not who you are. That's who Danarius made you. You don't have to be that ever again.”

“What would I be instead?” Fenris asked.

“Whatever you want,” Hawke replied. “I know he's still out there, but he has no hold over you. And when we kill him, you can finally let go of all that you were before.”

It sounded nice, Fenris had to admit. He knew that Hawke wouldn't rest until he had the freedom that she so fervently thought he deserved, and he wouldn't be able to relax until he had crushed Danarius' heart himself. So perhaps it could happen.

“You are tired,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling her up with him. “I will walk you home.”

“Actually...can I just stay here?” Hawke asked, eyes glimmering enticingly at him. “We don't have to do anything, I just...if I go home, Mother will ask questions and Bodhan will hover, and I'd just rather be here.”

“Of course,” Fenris said, and he led her over to the bed instead. “You may always stay here. Whenever you want.”

Hawke grinned at him and began attacking the laces of her robe. “Great. And Fenris?”

“Hm?”

“There's no reason you have to break things alone. You might not have noticed, but I have a talent for destruction. I won't even use magic.”

Fenris chuckled for the first time since she'd left earlier. “I will keep that in mind. Now get in the bed.”

"Bossy," Hawke grumbled, but she pulled off her robes, folding them over his chair before getting under the covers of the bed. 

"Brat," Fenris said back, before joining her.

 

 


	3. In Which Fenris Doesn't Lecture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would be sometime during early Act 2, after Hawke learns about his escape from Danarius.

Fenris was furious. Besides being furious, he was worried. Worry for someone else was a new feeling for him, really, something that had cropped up along with all the other confusing emotions that went with being involved with the impetuous hot head that was Aria Hawke. Why he bothered with the woman at all was something he thought he would never understand. But then she'd look at him with those icy grey eyes, and... No. He was not thinking about that now. Not when he was pacing restlessly in front of the abomination's Darktown clinic, looking for all the world like an elven harridan. He couldn't help it, though. He couldn't be in there. Not while Anders was placing his hands on her and making her glow with the blue light of his healing powers. 

Fenris wouldn't admit that the fool was useful.

That was the last thing he wanted to do. He still didn't really understand why Aria (because she was never just Hawke to him when she was in danger) couldn't have just healed herself. What was the point of having magic if you couldn't use it when you needed it most? The blood mage had said something about it just tiring her out more while she should have been resting, but the explanation had been lost in her hand wringing and rambling, so Fenris was still confused. 

"She's going to be fine, Broody," the dwarf said, coming up the stairs and leaning against the rail, ever present crossbow at his back. "It would take more than just an arrow to the back to keep Hawke down for long. Blondie will have her patched up in no time." 

"It should not have happened at all," Fenris snapped. " _Venhedis!_  I do not understand that woman." 

Varric just gave him a mild look. "What's not to understand?" 

"She uses magic. She shouldn't just..." He clenched his hand in its gauntlet, letting out a ragged sigh. He could still see it in his mind, Aria running into the fray of enemies and bashing people out of the way with the blade of her staff. "Just because she has a blade on that Maker forsaken weapon of hers, doesn't mean she should use it." 

"So, what?" Varric asked, folding his arms. "You want her to stand in the back, slinging ice spells and watching you and Aveline and the Rivaini have all the fun?" 

" _Fun?_ " Fenris rasped. "Have you left your senses, dwarf? There is  _nothing_  fun about-"

Varric sighed and rolled his eyes. "Look, Broody, I get it. You're concerned about her. But she won't thank you for trying to smother her. You see how she gets when her mother or Aveline tries that.

"Look where she is now, though!" Fenris said, loosing the threads of his composure. "She is in there, bleeding, and..." he trailed off, unable to continue.

"Actually, she's not bleeding anymore," came the tired voice of Anders from behind him, and Fenris whirled. He hated to have the abomination at his back. It was only a matter of time before he lost the battle with his demon and killed them all. "She's sleeping, so if you could keep it down, that would be better for everyone." 

Varric could apparently see the retort building because he cut in. "She's alright, then?" 

Anders nodded. "Of course. It would take more than an arrow to stop Aria. It wasn't even poisoned." 

Fenris bristled at his casual use of her first name, and pushed past him, striding into the clinic.

"Did you not hear me say she's sleeping?" the mage hissed.

"I am not leaving her here," Fenris replied firmly. "You are hunted, and I won't have her in more danger." 

"And what, you intend to carry her to Hightown?" 

"No, I intend to take her up through the cellar in her house. The one that opens about thirty feet in that direction." He jerked his finger in the direction of the opening, and the silence that greeted his declaration was gratifying. The mage hadn't known about it. Well, good. There was no reason for him to, and Fenris planned to have a few words with Chabril, Aria's mabari hound, to make sure that he kept watch over the passage. It was obvious that Aria didn't know how to look after herself properly, so Fenris was going to have to help, because he would be damned if he lost her now. " _Festis bei umo canavarum,_ " he whispered as he stepped into the clinic, his heart giving a painful twinge when he saw Aria lying on the cot. 

She looked paler than she should, and her auburn curls were a mess. It was always so unnerving to see her lying still. Usually she was a bundle of energy, whirling around and laughing, whacking into things with her staff. Now, it was almost as if...

But she was fine. He could see the steady rise and fall of her chest under her robes, and he vowed to speak with her about getting something more fitting to wear if she was going to insist on being stubborn and rushing headlong into things. 

As he stood there, her eyes flickered open. They searched for a moment before landing on his face. "I thought you might have been Anders," she said, voice soft. "Don't scowl. He told me to sleep, but I don't want to. I don't see how anyone could sleep comfortably in Darktown." 

"You used to sleep in  _Lowtown_ ," Fenris felt obliged to point out, trying to hide his relief. 

"Oh, it's not a slight about the people, really. Or the location. It's just..." she shook her head and sat up carefully. "I don't know. I don't like it here." 

Well, that made two of them. "I was going to take you home," Fenris said.

"So I heard. That would be  _wonderful,_ " Aria replied with a content sigh. "I need a bath. And food. And tea. Bodhan always knows what to do when I come home in a state." She threw her legs over the cot and got to her feet, only wobbling a little. "Can you hand me my staff?" she asked, nodding to where the weapon rested in the corner.

Fenris rarely touched it, but he did now, feeling prickles of the energy she channeled through it as he handed it over. It would have bothered him not that long ago, but now it was just another part of her.

"You aren't going to lecture me, are you?" she asked suddenly, looking up at him. "Because you've been known to do that. And you were speaking in Arcanum when you came in, and you usually only do that when you want to lecture me. Or when you're angry. Are you angry?" 

The words tumbled out of her mouth, and Fenris opened his own before closing it again. He  _had_  been angry, but somehow the sight of her, whole and utterly herself had washed that away. She probably could do with a lecture, but Fenris knew her well enough to know that it would do no good. He would just have to watch her better. 

"No. I am not angry, and there will be no lectures. Come. I will take you home." 


End file.
